While looking through some old papers the other day, I found a poem I’d written on a piece of scrap paper nearly twenty years ago.
The memory is still vivid: I’d been sitting at a table in the cafeteria where I worked, next to a big wall of glass that looked out onto a pleasant Pacific Northwest landscape. Big wet snowflakes filled the air, a stunning array of outrageous white puffs slowly tumbling downward in unison. As I watched, taking it all in, I saw a fellow employee, dressed in his overcoat and carrying a briefcase, emerge from the building and look up.
The snowflakes tumble down lazily.
It’s plenty cold enough.
There is no hurry.
A man walks out the lobby door,
looks around, and his face lights up
with the eager anticipation of a child
at a snowy morning window.
But then
he casts a backward glance
at the watching office windows,
thinks better of himself,
and trudges off,
a businessman again.
